Fire Meet Gasoline
by Sango
Summary: Bulma "accidentally" overhears her quiet alien houseguest talking to himself in a tongue lost to all but him. She decides that his language is too beautiful to die, and her thirst for Saiyan knowledge inevitably leads to a relentless pursuit of the Prince himself. An epic war of wills blazes into a firestorm of passion, but when it dies, will anything salvageable be left behind?
1. Independent Study

_It's dangerous_  
 _To fall in love, but I_  
 _Wanna burn with you tonight_  
 _Hurt me_  
 _There's two of us_  
 _We're bristling with desire_  
 _The pleasure's pain and fire_  
 _Burn me_

 _-Sia_

* * *

It all started rather accidentally.

Settling in for a late night at her desk with her favorite comfort food, Bulma just happened to notice a tiny blinking light.

The gravity room was still in "debug" mode. Normally only engaged after major updates or repairs, this mode gathered every scrap of data in case of malfunction, including full audio and video. Clearly she'd forgotten to disable it after last week's overhaul.

The chamber was in use, because it was always in use. After a pause, Bulma routed the feeds to her workstation, curious.

Brilliant energy washed over her wall of monitors, coruscating. The first bite of instant ramen went cold in mid-air, and she picked up the wine instead.

Her shirtless, sweaty houseguest held her mesmerized. With utterly precise control of his body, he flowed through a series of forms with the grace and suppressed violence of a caged panther. All without touching the ground, in an environment lethal to almost anyone else. Sweat traced the lines of his body, rolling unhurriedly along the carved furrows of his ridiculously cut shoulders, chest, and abdomen, giving her no option but to trace each path with her eyes.

Her office was suddenly stifling, and the wine had her cheeks burning. She was somewhat thrown by the intensity of her reaction. It's not like she'd never seen him in the chamber; they used video chat as necessary to discuss repairs, mealtimes, other mundanities. It's not like she'd never seen him shirtless; all summer he'd walked around in little else other than spandex training shorts. She was a bit spoiled maybe; most of the men in her life were built like Greek gods and liked to show off.

But watching his body move as it was built to, coiled and powerful at a pace so slow it was almost sensual , that was an entirely different encounter than brushing shoulders briefly in the kitchen or on the stairs. He had so many scars, more than any of the rest of the fighters she knew, pale against the tanned olive of his skin. The effect was dangerous, delicious - and somehow a tiny bit vulnerable. She was well familiar with how fast Goku healed. Were these scars all from battle? Some appeared quite old - decades, even. How hard must someone have been trying to hurt him, to leave such marks on Saiyan skin?

That sobering thought was enough to wrench her mind out of the gutter, long enough to realize he'd been talking to himself this whole time, while she was too distracted to notice. She couldn't understand a word, but it shocked her to hear such free expression from a man she'd long since decided was quiet, standoffish, brusque, and borderline rude.

After a beat, her heart constricted.

He's an **alien** , Bulma. He **looks** human, so everyone expects him to **act** human, to grasp all of the weird social customs and nuances the rest of us have had decades to assimilate.

He spent his entire adolescence and adulthood in a tyrant's military. He's probably not even well-versed in the social norms of his **own** people, whatever they might have been before they were all blown to particles.

His entire social structure had been survival of the fittest and whatever the privilege of royalty afforded him, which seemed largely to have been his soul-sustaining pride. "Playing nice" wasn't just an idea he disdained...he had no idea how to adapt to a social structure where power and ruthlessness did not rule all. Even if his pride would have let him.

He had to feel a loneliness beyond the scale of anything she'd ever imagined - and as a too-smart, know-it-all, underdeveloped kid who'd never known a real friend until she hit Goku with her car, that was really saying something. The last of his race. The last speaker of his language. A revenge-driven soldier without an army, or a target. Just an empty, almost aimless existence he tried to fill with training to beat Goku, the new goal he tried to convince himself was a worthy replacement aspiration for avenging his entire planet. Even in his obsession, in the dark of night he had to see it for the pettiness it was; he'd asked Goku to avenge their people, and he had, and now somehow the only other of his kind was the locus of all his directionless, unsatisfied hate?

He really had nothing; not a single possession to his name but the armor he'd died in. He lived on Bulma's generosity, accepted her food, shelter, technology, clothing. His life was aimless and untethered; training for a battle with the androids and then Goku sounded aspirational in the abstract, but in the end, what would it really mean ?

Bulma's worst mean-girl experience growing up was an extremely fancy birthday party. Awkward-middle-school-Bulma quickly realized she didn't belong there, and had been invited as a joke. No one had tried to help her navigate that social nightmare.

For him it must be like walking around all day long not knowing which fork to use.

The one thing she knew for certain about him was how much pride he had. Not knowing how to act, not permitting himself to show ignorance, it was no surprise he avoided contact with everyone.

You've patted yourself on the back for trying to "include" him in your invitations to party, but have you done even one real thing to help him feel more comfortable here?

No, instead she'd harassed him about being stuck-up and antisocial. Her cheeks burned with shame.

You also give him shit for training all of the time, but has it ever occurred to you that there's nothing else for him to do? If you'd thought more than two seconds about it, that translator implant must be verbal-only. He can't fucking read. Deciphering everything from the shower controls to cereal boxes to the TV remote must be an exercise in frustration for a man pretty much continually maxxed out in that category by his failure to ascend.

No wonder all he does is train, eat, and sleep.

Alone.

She watched him for hours, food and work long forgotten, mesmerized by his movement, his unflagging determination. The only other person she knew with that kind of obsessive, single-minded dedication was...herself.

He finally stopped long after midnight. She memorized the lines of his face in the brief moment of stillness as he drank water, mopped down with a towel, closed his eyes. Patrician and perfect, there was no denying he had the features of royalty. Her finger traced his bottom lip on screen.

She ignored the irrelevant ache of baser wants and focused on the problem at hand. This is your fuck-up, Bulma Brief. What are you going to do about it?

* * *

Something was different, like the shift in barometric pressure before a storm, or the oddly long last moments of a doomed planet after the fatal blast - where all is lost but everything still looks the same.

It made his hair stand on end. The woman had been especially enigmatic lately; she had not harassed him in months about his preference for solitude or his time in the chamber. He was tempted to break something on purpose to get a rise out of her, but not tempted enough to delay his own progress.

The only thing keeping him sane was that there was progress; he could feel it. It was just so infuriatingly slow. Without a breakthrough, he would never catch up in time.

Sometimes he felt like he'd fallen into an alternate dimension where nothing made sense. The people around him floated through their lives, day in and day out, no struggle to kill or be killed, no watching over their shoulders for betrayal, sleeping at night like babies. Except for her, maybe, he often heard her roaming the halls or mumbling in nightmare.

The leaves were changing color in what he hoped heralded the end of the hot season, but it was still sweltering. He shut everything down an hour earlier than usual, suddenly unwilling to deal with the heat any longer.

He lingered in the cool breeze on the back deck, looking at the wretched mess of stars. Nothing was where it should be, and nothing made sense.

She'd once called the stars "pretty," but as many times as he'd awaited-dreaded-prayed-for death in the emptiness of space, he knew them for the soulless, empty sentinels they were.

The kitchen was silent and dark, soothing to his overstimulated senses. All he wanted was to eat, bathe, and sleep, winding down with the familiarity of routine. He fetched the large glass container of "leftovers" the nicer woman had taken to leaving him, heating it directly with his hands. He'd finally figured out how to use the microwave; he just didn't fucking feel like it tonight.

He didn't see her until he was almost on top of her, which was irritating beyond all reason. Damnable creatures with no discernable ki. And since when has she ever been quiet?

Dangling one bare leg carelessly, the other was tucked underneath her as she nursed a cup of that black death beverage, a jumble of hand-drawn schematics spread out before her. Hair twisted back casually with a writing implement, baggy garment with her own logo slipping off of her shoulder, she was the picture of casual disinterest. He wasn't buying it.

What was she up to?

Too tired for her shit, and determined to maintain his routine, he grabbed the entire pitcher of chilled water from the fridge and turned for the stairs.

" **I hope your day was good.** "

His finely honed reflexes saved the food, but the pitcher shattered spectacularly at his feet.

She'd spoken in his native tongue, so the literal words had been more along the lines of "I hope your day was red with the blood of the unworthy."

He whirled to face her, mouth open, unable to tell if what he felt was fury, astonishment, or something else entirely. He'd never expected to hear his own language again. The stab of raw emotion evoked by the rough syllables in her honest voice was quickly overpowered by suspicion and resentment.

" **What are you playing at, woman?** " He snapped at her, in the same language, automatically. " **It's not fucking funny**."

" **I'm not playing at anything,** " she said carefully, " **It's been a lot of work** -"

" **No one asked you to** -"

" **I promise I'm not fucking with you** **, Vegeta**." She sighed. " **Please. Sit. I'll explain while you eat.** " Her eyes begged him to stay. She seemed so open and earnest. If she were manipulating him, she was the best he'd ever met. Better than Frieza.

She fetched him more water and asked a kitchen bot to clean up the shattered glass.

She was the only person he'd ever met who asked machines to perform tasks, instead of ordering them.

He sat.


	2. Thesis Defense

_So come on, I'll take you on, take you on, I_  
 _Ache for love, ache for us, why_  
 _Don't you come, don't you come a little closer_  
 _So come on now, strike the match, strike the match now_  
 _We're a perfect match, perfect somehow_  
 _We were meant for one another, come a little closer_

 _-Sia_

* * *

The silence stretched a breath longer than comfort, well into awkwardness, but Bulma was both very invested in the outcome of this conversation and fairly certain she was going to bungle it.

He finished the last of the food, feigning disinterest, ignoring her.

The only way out was through, so with a fortifying breath she began, in Saiyan.

" **I know it's a lot to ask, but try not to get angry until I get to the end?** " Her tone was even, neutral.

" **Don't hold your breath** ," he said, but uncrossed his arms and leaned back a bit, making an effort.

His initial wave fury had receded. In spite of himself, Vegeta was impressed by how much she'd managed to learn, given that there was absolutely fucking no one in the entire universe she could have practiced with.

Her accent was almost flawless. She spoke with the tone and cadence of aristocracy, which wasn't as out of place to his ear as it should have been. Probably because her wealth, fame, and self-assurance made her the closest thing to royalty found on this mudball forgotten by the rest of space.

What was out of place was her masculine inflection and choice of pronouns, and the vulgar vocabulary of a common soldier.

Actually, never mind that last bit. Coarse language had always suited her just fine.

She looked nervous. It was strange on her face - an expression he hadn't seen since Namek. Back when she was afraid of him. He missed that. A wisp of blue hair flexed against her throat as she swallowed.

" **Get on with it already!** " He still wanted to go to bed.

Bulma figured this was either her greatest triumph or her biggest mistake - the difference being whether or not she lived through the aftermath. He was looking at her like a snake that might still bite him, so she tried to speak as placatingly as possible.

"Soooooo…" She didn't have the fluency to express herself in his language anymore with enough nuance, so she switched back and forth and hoped his implant could keep up. " **The last time I** upgraded the gravity room, **I accidentally left it** **in** debug mode."

His eyebrows were raised, so she could only imagine what kind of word salad was being projected into his brain. She tried to stick to one language per sentence. " **It collects all relevant data possible, to make finding and fixing problems more efficient.** "

She paused, and he nodded impatiently.

" **It also records sound and video.** "

His tapping foot stilled. She was pretty sure his face looked like that just before planets died.

She had to look away before continuing. "I didn't mean to invade your privacy. I'm sorry. I was just curious, and…"

She could feel his ki swirling around her, cold along the floor, and she was as ki-insensitive as they came.

She looked up at him again. " **...you were incredible to watch,** " she said honestly.

It shut off like a switch. Or did it? Maybe she'd been imagining it in the first place.

Was he blushing ?

She hurried on, starting to babble. "You talk a lot, while you train. I was surprised, because you're normally so quiet."

The floor was freezing again.

" **I realized I have been a terrible host.** "

By the expression on his face, whatever he'd been expecting her to say, it wasn't that.

" **I haven't tried to ease your transition to life on this planet in any useful way.** "

" **I don't need your help** ," he huffed.

" **No, but I should have offered it anyway** ," she said, and he had no ready response to that.

" **It also made me sad that such a beautiful language would die with you**."

He was fairly certain that no outsider before her had ever called the language of Saiyans beautiful. Most wouldn't have dared.

It was too much.

" **Let me get this straight. You decided to learn** **my** **language for your** **amusement** **, by** **spying on me while I train** **?** " His voice was low and violent, and each phrase cracked like a whip.

That was the voice of the alien who'd first arrived on Earth, with the aim to kill everyone on it. She'd forgotten it could be so cold - but the guttural syllables of the foreign tongue struck something in her belly like a match, smoldering.

" **No! I mean, yes, but-** " A sigh. " **I wanted to save it for you, Vegeta.** " She ran her fingers through her hair in agitation, sending the pencil flying.

He clenched his fists to keep them away from her throat. " **I have killed, for** **so much** **less.** " And yet, his name on her lips in his own language was intoxicating, a drug he wanted again, and again, and didn't know why.

She ignored the coiled violence in his tension, exposing her back to him as she faced the wall of glass between the kitchen and the deck. He was torn between irritation at being dismissed as a threat, and some other feeling evoked by the display of trust. Doesn't she know what she has invited into her home?

She carried on. "Goku is a lost cause, but Gohan is a really good student. I think he'd love to learn the language of his ancestors, to teach his kids someday. **It doesn't have to die.** "

The swirling chill intensified, flaring up until her skin felt the sting of frostbite. She stood her ground, waiting on him. A few seconds stretched into eternity; her breath fogged the glass once, twice. She'd never felt more alive.

He vanished without a word.

* * *

She was utterly unafraid of him. She wasn't stupid, so that only left crazy.

Not entirely crazy. She knew he still needed her alive to achieve what he wanted most.

His name pronounced properly, in a feminine voice, made him remember his long-forgotten mother with an unwelcome jolt of emotion.

He hadn't let himself think about how much he missed having a conversation in his first language until right this moment, because what was the point? But of all the people in the universe, why would he want to share it with her? An outsider. It made him feel even more keenly the weight of being the last true Saiyan in the universe.

It made him feel even more alone.

Somewhere he knew the well-meaning idiot was trying to do something kind for him, even if it also served her selfish obsession for knowledge. Part of him felt bad for not being able to accept it, and that realization pissed him off beyond all reason. He owed her nothing.

* * *

She sat a long time in the kitchen trying to figure out if this had been a good idea, or a terrible one.

She was still alive, so there was that.

When she finally came upstairs, she hesitated on the landing, wondering if he were asleep, wondering if she should apologize.

A loud crash from his room decided for her. "Vegeta?" She knocked, to no answer.

She cracked the door and peeked inside, but he was nowhere to be seen. A dresser was toppled over, contents strewn about like carnage. No lights were on, but the curtains blew in from the open balcony doors.

He sat against the exterior wall of the house, wearing only shorts, impervious to the icy wind. His eyes gleamed at her from the shadows like a nocturnal predator.

She sat as close as she thought he would tolerate. His narrowed gaze never left her. "I'm sorry," she started, and he blinked.

She was sticking to her language until if and when he decided he was okay with otherwise. "I let my greed for knowledge convince me you'd find the end result worth the invasion of privacy. I knew better." She met his glare without flinching. "I should have asked you."

He understood the concept of apologizing. He'd seen it used for political machination. He'd had the words forced from his own mouth, on his knees, countless times.

He couldn't recall ever being on the receiving end of a real one. His anger leaked away, slipping through his grasp when he tried to grab it back.

Who was this human, to offer him that?

"Why did you really do it?" He asked, in spite of himself.

"Everything I said before was true. I couldn't stand to see something lost when I could save it. But also," she paused, considering. "I wanted to be your friend."

He jerked. "I don't need your friendship ," he spat. Why would she say such a ridiculous thing?

"Of course you don't need it," she agreed, a smooth parry. "But would it be so bad?" Riposte .

"Hn. How exactly was this supposed to make us friends ?" His tone was still surly.

She made an impatient sound. "Clearly, this all went a lot better in my head. But...part of being friends is knowing someone, and being known.

She moved closer, too close. "You've had to learn about me and my world whether you wanted to or not. I wanted to learn your language to learn more about you."

He leaned in. "And did you, little human?" His voice was unreadable, dangerous.

She continued on, blithely blowing past caution. In for a penny, in for a pound. "A bit, yeah."

Leaning back against the wall, she elaborated, "Not so much you, specifically, but a lot of the differences in culture that seemed so jarring at first are sort of built into your language. I'd say I understand Saiyans a little more, at least."

Something eased in him, hearing that. Some invisible tension lessened, at the idea that he might not always have to explain himself, to conform, that he could just be what he was, and that would be acceptable.

She went on, ignorant of his seismic internal shift. "And...it's a failsafe."

He shook his head. "What?"

She looked directly at him again, utterly serious. "What if your translator chip suddenly fails? I can't imagine that shitbag lizard splurged on top of the line wetware."

No, we were too expendable for that.

She shrugged. "I'm a genius, but I don't do cybernetics. I'm not fucking around with your brain. You need to be able to communicate with at least one of us without relying on tech."

That was terrifying, actually, the thought of being stuck on this backwater hellhole without being able to make himself understood. How had that never occurred to him before?

But all he said was, "I'd have just left."

"And I don't want you to leave." She smiled. "Because you're my friend."

He felt an unfamiliar stab. "No, I'm not," he growled.

She waved that aside, then frowned. "I don't want the androids to kill us all, either. We need you."

She fell silent and he could only watch her, words having left him. The loose tangle of her hair was a halo of blue, backlit by a sliver of moon that left everything else in darkness. She was ethereal, unreal, and certainly didn't belong out here freezing her ass off with him.

Had anyone ever claimed to need him before? Certainly he'd been reminded often of how disposable he was, should he fail to comply.

He studied her profile, this infuriating creature, and wondered at the warmth that flooded him at the idea of being needed.

He hated it. He craved it.

Without looking at him, she placed her hand over his, and it was a small eternity before he pulled away.


	3. Assigned Reading

_"A hunted man sometimes wearies of distrust and longs for friendship."_

 _\- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings_

* * *

Bulma shivered, finally feeling the cold now that she'd said her piece. Chilled everywhere but her palm, burnt from contact with his skin.

"Can we go inside? There's one last thing you need to see," she said, reluctant.

He grunted what seemed to be assent, but ignored the hand she offered to help him up.

Well, he was heavy as fuck and she'd really only done it out of polite reflex anyway.

She hated to disturb the uneasy truce they had going on at the moment, but waiting would only make it worse.

"I'll be right back," she said, stepping around the upended dresser.

He was lying on the bed when she returned, arms behind his head. Clearly just wishing she would go away and leave him be. He was all blacks and whites against the duvet, the low light washing away all color, but not the tension between them.

She sat on the opposite side of the bed, placing an object in the middle.

He cracked an eye to find an electronic tablet, but his face betrayed no interest.

"I thought you might want something to read." She swiped a finger over the screen to turn it on, attempting nonchalance.

She felt the brewing of his rekindled anger like an incoming storm.

Bulma Brief was not afraid of a storm.

"I could have just learned Galactic Standard," she began. Did, in fact. "But it's such an ugly, perfunctory language."

She was right. Galactic Standard had no nuance, lyric, or poetry, except when it came to endless variety of currency, weight, measure, and coordinates. It was the language of trade and war.

She fiddled with the interface. "I wasn't sure what you'd be into, so you've got a few options."

Truthfully, she'd agonized over what might interest him. Everything she considered seemed too frivolous, a waste of his time. Eventually she'd settled on The Art of War, because it might lead to interesting debate if nothing else. But she'd also wanted to give him the opportunity to experience reading for pleasure; she doubted he ever had.

Fiction was an even more impossible challenge. She imagined anything based in past or present Earth settings would bore him. She could not offer Earthling science-fiction to an actual space-faring alien. She finally landed on fantasy, because it was removed enough from his own experiences that he might get into it.

Unless there was a planet of real elves somewhere he'd razed to the ground at some point.

Anyway, the second offering was the compiled Lord of the Rings trilogy.

"So, um, here you go," she managed.

She looked almost meek as she nudged the device toward him. It didn't suit her, and made his skin crawl with unease.

The interface was in Saiyan as well. His brain overloaded; he stopped processing.

"How?" he rasped, when he meant to shout.

She fidgeted, her explanation halting at first, but as she got going, her voice thrummed with excitement. It was impossible not to admire her enthusiasm and resourcefulness, even in his anger.

"I've studied, downloaded, and archived every bit of Saiyan tech and data I could find. The space pods left here after your first visit. Raditz' scouter. The Ginyuu pod Goku brought back from Namek. Maps, transmissions, communications, your sorry selection of 'in-flight entertainment' - all of it."

He said nothing, moved nothing, still struggling to understand the magnitude of what she was saying.

"You know I converted the scouter into English the first night I had it, right?" She said absently, as though of course he'd known. But he hadn't.

She continued on, not noticing. "Its native OS had options to toggle between Standard and Saiyan, which was very useful."

"I made some connections offworld, thanks to Tights." She smiled. "Never underestimate the curiosity of scientists or librarians. It was easy enough to get a Galactic Standard-English dictionary in exchange for some Earth books on languages, history, art, and music."

She practically bounced with excitement. "I wrote a translation algorithm. It's clunky as hell, since it has to convert through Standard first. I'll make a better, direct-translation version when I'm fully fluent."

She came back to herself suddenly, peering at him carefully. "Er, if you still want me to continue, that is."

Her fingernail tapped mindlessly on the screen, obscenely loud in the dead silence. "Anyway, the translations aren't perfect, but I manually finessed what I could."

"You. Made. Me. Books. In. Saiyan." He was stunned, overwhelmed by her audacity and the enormity of what she'd accomplished.

"Mmm hmm. But here," she grabbed it back.

She tapped something, and the interface switched to Standard, then to her language, then back to Saiyan. "If something really sounds weird, you can reference the original Standard. Or English."

She was giving him a way to learn her language, on his own, and they both knew it.

And they both knew he'd never turn down an opportunity to build an advantage for himself. As little as he cared about the primitive culture he was stuck in, the more he learned, the less he was forced to depend on anyone else.

This was by far the longest period of time he'd spent in solo conversation with anyone in years. He felt like the walls were closing in, and his head hurt.

"You had no right," he growled. Infuriated, overcome, raw.

He looked like a horse about to bolt. Bulma got up, hands raised in surrender, knowing she'd overstepped. "I know," she said, retreating. Giving him space. "I know."

She paused at the threshold. "But it's all yours, now. Say the word, and I'll destroy it."

It was an affront of massive proportions. It was a gift beyond measure.

Her eyes were so earnest they hurt to look at. "But the universe will be a lesser place. Promise me you'll think about it."

He promised nothing, but she hadn't expected a response, leaving him to the chaos of his thoughts.

Back in her own room, Bulma leaned against the door, exhausted. She'd hoped to give him a gift; he'd taken it like a blow. Doubt wracked her, and it was not a feeling she knew well.

Well, what's done is done. Maybe time would change his mind. Or it wouldn't. All she could do was wait.

* * *

He avoided her for days that stretched into weeks, but she allowed him the distance, hoping.

Until one morning he was still eating breakfast when she stumbled downstairs for coffee.

This was such an unusual occurrence that she didn't see him until after her first sip, which she almost spat on him as she slammed the cup on the counter and turned away to fasten her robe.

The entire household was usually long gone by this hour, so she wandered around in whatever she'd slept in, usually a loose shirt, skimming her hips, exposing her underwear. Half the time she didn't bother with a robe. Thankfully she had today.

Caught off-guard, she couldn't look at him. He already thought she was vulgar and shameless. "Sorry," she mumbled. Why was she embarrassed? She was vulgar and shameless.

" **Good morning** ," he said, indifferently. Ignoring her attire and her discomfort entirely.

Only, he said it in Saiyan, the low, exotic words rolling from his mouth so smoothly that she shivered.

The literal translation was "You're alive, so pursue victory," and suddenly his brusque, uncomfortably direct attitude and mannerisms made so much more sense.

It was a peace offering. It was what he could manage of forgiveness. It was all the thanks he was able to offer.

"Until my last breath," she responded appropriately, accepting it like a gift.

The smile she wore was ridiculous alongside the serious statement, but it stopped his breath anyway, brighter than the sun behind her.

He couldn't recall ever making anyone happy before, intentionally or otherwise, but this was the second time it had happened with her. The first was ages ago, when he offered the obvious suggestion of how to use wishes to retrieve Kakarot from Namek. Back then, he'd feared she might hug him, which he'd found appalling and offensive.

Now, he was disturbed to find himself disappointed she made no move to do so, even though he'd never have let her. The warm scent of her skin surrounded him, called to him, repulsed him.

He left without another word to train.

Bulma smiled into her coffee.


	4. Lesson Planning

_"Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt."_

 _ **-Sun Tzu** , **The Art of War**_

 _"A cold voice answered: 'Come not between the Nazgûl and his prey! Or he will not slay thee in thy turn. He will bear thee away to the houses of lamentation, beyond all darkness, where thy flesh shall be devoured, and thy shrivelled mind be left naked to the Lidless Eye.'_

 _A sword rang as it was drawn. 'Do what you will; but I will hinder it, if I may.'_

 _'Hinder me? Thou fool. No living man may hinder me!'_

 _Then Merry heard of all sounds in that hour the strangest. It seemed that Dernhelm laughed, and the clear voice was like the ring of steel. 'But no living man am I! You look upon a woman.'"_

 _ **-J.R.R. Tolkien** , **The Lord of the Rings**_

* * *

The new normal was...nice. There was a new mutual understanding, a gap bridged between them. A slight benefit of the doubt where before misunderstanding would have sparked a raging argument. Even Bulma's mother commented that they were "getting along so much better these days!"

At first Bulma only spoke in Saiyan after he did, wary of being too familiar with what was clearly still precious to him. Gradually Vegeta sought her out to talk more and more, unable to resist the draw of his own language, until they conversed in it as easily as her own. Moreso, even, as in some darker moods he would respond to Saiyan when she was certain he'd have ignored her, before.

He rarely allowed himself downtime, but she found him reading once or twice, lost in one of the books for a short midday break under a tree, or while he ate alone at night before bed. He even messaged her once, from the tablet, with improved Saiyan translations for a few passages.

He wasn't as reluctant to be around her as before, but he still held her at arms' length, refusing to talk about his planet or people beyond answering simple questions for the research she was still pursuing, with his unspoken permission.

He wasn't her adversary, but he wasn't her friend yet, either. Bulma was at a loss as to why he resisted her attempts so much, and why she wanted so badly to make it happen. It wasn't for knowledge, anymore; she'd learned more than she'd dreamed possible, and was still moving forward, though she'd had to split time with her other work obligations.

It was him . He was fascinating, this destroyer of worlds who lived in her home and occasionally asked her to pass the salt. She knew she should fear him. Instead, she wanted to climb inside him, to know every aspect of him and make him hers.

She supposed her attraction wasn't all that surprising given she'd made no attempt at dating since Yamcha. It wasn't because of the breakup; she just couldn't be bothered with trivial men when the end of the world was coming. That was why she'd ended the relationship in the first place - she'd realized if there might only be a few years left of her life, she didn't want to spend them with Yamcha . There was nothing wrong with him. He just wasn't who she wanted at her side to face the end of all things. And he deserved to maybe find that with someone else.

Given that it had been a while , it was not that surprising she'd started thinking about Vegeta that way. Whatever else he might be, he was far from trivial.

She knew he wasn't un -interested in her. He had eyes, and she occasionally caught them on her with an intensity made all the more obvious by how quickly he looked away. But he was driven, he had plans, and there was no room in his schedule for anything that didn't get him closer to ascending.

Bulma wasn't a genius for nothing. The way to his... heart... was going to be through his goals. She'd already built him a facility, she already supplied him with bots. It was time to attack with data .

* * *

It's not like he'd never read before - one didn't rise in the military without reading manuals, briefings, training texts, technical specs. He even vaguely remembered reading Saiyan fables and histories as a child. But it was entirely foreign to find himself reading of his own volition, for no reason other than diversion.

Contrary to what Bulma would have guessed, he'd begun with the fiction. It was an unexpected escape, a rare experience for him. It was even pleasant, until he had the unwelcome realization that he identified more with the orcs and Nazgûl than the group of heroes.

A subjugated army forced into war and conquest? Sounded a lot more like him than oblivious immortal elves living in treehouses or hairy little creatures digging houses into hillsides and eating all day. Did the fiction even explain why the orcs fought for this conqueror, or was it just assumed that they loved war? How could that have been enough? Even for a warlike people, what glory is there in service to a tyrant? What glory can be found without freedom?

The inside of his head had never been a pleasant place, not since the day his father bargained him away, but for the first time he began to grasp the the outside edges of the enormity of his sins. He'd done what he'd done to survive, all of it, but that didn't make his hands any less bloody.

Combat, violence, and the pursuit of victory were in his bones, in whatever was left of his soul. It was how the world made sense. But so much of what they'd done under Frieza's orders had been outright slaughter. There was no honor in obliterating the weak. How low had he fallen, that he'd allowed himself to enjoy it?

It was either that, or die, he supposed, under the weight of an otherwise joyless existence. The more time he spent away from that life, on this space-ignorant rock with its weak little inhabitants and one exasperating scientist, he wondered how he could ever have thought those years under Frieza held any joy at all.

* * *

Bulma lay in wait for him in the kitchen one evening, having already warmed up his dinner, knowing he would be more receptive after finishing his training for the day. In the mornings he had too much pent-up energy and no patience for conversation or anything that delayed him longer than necessary.

He eyed her with suspicion but no animosity as she served them both dinner and sat, saying nothing. She sipped her wine and waited, the imprint of her lips left behind on the glass, a half-moon of color that kept stealing his gaze.

" **Out with it, woman.** "

She smiled, and he felt as though he'd lost a point in a contest he was unaware of entering. "Well, Vegeta, I've been doing some research."

" **That's a surprise.** "

Was that sarcasm? She was delighted.

"You've trained every day since the chamber went online, and when it's down for repairs you go off and blast shit elsewhere. You haven't taken a single day off, have you?"

He shrugged. **"Why would I waste time I could be training?"**

She spoke casually, too casually. **"That's the thing - I don't think it would be a waste of time."**

 **"What the fuck do** **you** **know about it? You avoid physical activity like it might kill you."**

She huffed, sitting up straight, eyes flashing. "I'll have you know I do plenty of- you know what, never mind, this isn't about me. I'm trying to help you, you ungrateful prick."

The insult lacked venom so he ignored it. But still, **"I'm not in need of your help."**

She switched tactics. Data, Bulma. "I've been studying peak human performers, professional athletes in various sports. How they train, what they eat."

His grunt of irritation dismissed that as irrelevant. **"I care about that, why?"**

She waved a hand, "Yeah, I know humans and Saiyans are so different, Saiyans get stronger every time they're beaten near to death, et cetera, et cetera."

She leaned forward, uncrossing her legs. **"But the mere existence of Gohan proves we're way more similar than different, so you can't throw out all of my data that easily."** Her lab coat parted with her movement, revealing the low neckline of the blouse underneath. Entirely unwillingly he was forced to contemplate exactly how compatible their races were whether he wanted to or not.

Seemingly oblivious, she carried on, "Human physiology benefits from a period of rest after a period of strenuous activity, giving the body time to repair and strengthen." Eyes like a bird of prey watched him from behind her wineglass as she drank.

"Bah." He began to rise, and she pulled an entire pie out of the fridge, putting it in front of him. He frowned at it but sat back down. It was pie, after all.

She drug a knife through it slowly, insolently, putting a slice on a plate he ignored by sticking his fork in the middle of the rest. "Have you ever wondered if one of the differences between you and Goku might be how you approach your training?"

He growled around a giant mouthful of pie, latent childhood manners still too regal to say what he really thought of her bringing up Kakarot with his mouth full.

She licked the edge of the knife, a quick flash of tongue like a wink. "Goku has always taken time off, now and then. He goes fishing with Gohan, takes Chichi to the city."

He finished chewing. **"Like I care what that third-class-"**

 **"My point is,"** she interrupted, daring to swipe a bite of his pie, **"You can't argue that it hasn't been working for him."**

He looked furious. Bulma was going to lose him if she didn't act fast.

Vegeta felt a stab of betrayal at the implied comparison, and then surprise at the betrayal. When had he started thinking of her as anything other than his adversary's ally?

She broke into his thoughts with a hand on his arm, freezing him with a touch while fire ran over his skin.

Her voice was low, almost primal, challenging. **"I'll make a bet with you. It's one day - what do you have to lose?"**

In Saiyan the literal phrase was more like "Do you have balls, or not?" And his were tightening, at the challenge, at the touch. His blood sang under her fingers, as though sparked by her ki, which was impossible, as she had basically none.

He swallowed, jerking his arm away. **"What are your terms?"**

Her smile had too many teeth, like a well-fed predator. "You take one rest day, following the itinerary I plan, exactly. No training. We track your peak and average power levels the week before the rest day, and then the week after."

She dug out her mobile to show him a graph, all business again. "Your progress so far has been fairly linear. I bet that during the first 48 hours after a rest day you'll see a bigger jump than would be projected by the previous week's data with no rest."

She looked him dead in the eye, and he'd be damned if he looked away first. "If I'm wrong, I'll make you a new set of training bots with enhanced AI."

Neither of them blinked. She went on, "If I'm right, you take one day off at least every 10 days. Or work with me to find the ideal ratio of rest to work days." Another sip of wine, still locking eyes. "Up to you."

She dropped her gaze, and he exhaled. "What does this rest day entail?"

She brushed invisible crumbs off of her garment with a lazy, ineffective gesture. "Sleeping. Eating. Massage. Maybe some active recovery, like walking or stretching. Diverting yourself mentally with something completely unrelated to training."

He sighed. The part of him that had kept him alive for so long insisted it was a waste of time he couldn't afford, but he was beginning to trust in her and her logic , and honestly it sounded rather...pleasant.

 **"I'll do it, but you're going to make me the new bots either way."** He felt smug about that stipulation, somehow coming out ahead after this shipwreck of a conversation.

 **"Done,"** she said with a smooth, tiny smile, and he had the sudden feeling that a squad of new bots already awaited him somewhere, and he hadn't won anything at all.


	5. Study Break

_The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting._

 _-Sun Tzu, The Art of War_

 _Flame you came from me_

 _Fire meet gasoline_

 _Fire meet gasoline_

 _I'm burning alive_

 _-Sia_

* * *

Vegeta's rest day began with breakfast in bed, an impractical luxury he'd never heard of and wasn't sure how to approach, wearing only sheets and a frown as his trainer-for-the-day rolled a massive cart of food into his bedroom.

The cart wobbled under the weight of an entire side of beef along with two dozen eggs, three pounds of bacon, fruit, and what she privately considered to be enough pancakes to feed a family of five for a week.

"Go big or go home," Bulma quipped, pleased with herself.

He grunted, too busy chewing to reply immediately. "I'm not drinking that sludge," he eventually said, gesturing at a pot of coffee.

"That's for me," she said, pouring some and nibbling on a danish.

It felt opulent and uncomfortable eating in bed under her clinical observation. It became clear that his comfort level was unlikely to improve over the course of the day as she led him to a room with a table and told him to strip and get under the blanket while she stepped out. He'd never been laid out on a table for any good reason, and intensely disliked the idea of getting on one now, his mind flitting through a red blur of memories laced with pain and the smell of his own burnt skin.

He looked a bit wild around the eyes, like a spooked horse, so Bulma touched his arm. "Hey."

The intensity of his gaze shocked her, the fear he allowed her to read, or at least found himself unable to hide. She tried to look reassuring. "This is just massage therapy, to work adhesions out of your muscle tissue. It should be pleasant and relaxing, but if at any point you're uncomfortable, we'll stop. That goes for any part of today."

She moved around the room, dimming the lights and commanding the walls to radiate soft music over the sound of falling water.

"You can keep the shorts on, if you want."

He did want. It felt less medical, as opposed to being naked on a table as ruined armor was cut from his battle-shocked limbs.

She lit a candle when she returned, and the smell of pine and winter soothed him. It shouldn't have, the scent was nothing from his past or planet. It was the scent of _her_ , the same candles she burned in her office, her chambers. When had safety become...her?

It helped that she was very professional, warm but detached, telling him what she would be doing before she moved to any new part of his body. Gradually he felt himself relax under her hands.

"Do you even know what you're doing?" he groused, because he felt vulnerable, because he hated the thought she might win this wretched wager.

"Yes." To show off, she told him the formal names for each muscle group as she continued, observing out loud that the attachment points were surprisingly similar, and other bullshit he tuned out.

"Why are you enjoying this so much?" he asked her feet, the only view of her to be had lying facedown on this contraption.

"It's _for science_ ," she drawled. He could hear her smile.

 _And you are awfully fun to touch. Strictly professionally._

Bulma swallowed. "Almost done, but do you have anything that's particularly sore?"

"No."

Her foot tapped. "Bullshit, Vegeta. Your whole life has been a battle. You can admit to something as normal as feeling pain. Do you want to increase your performance or not?"

"My neck," he admitted, quietly. "Never been the same since…" he didn't finish, and she let it go.

"Okay. Flip over and let's work on that."

She stopped talking in her concentration, and he allowed his eyes to close, letting her work. There was nothing to distract him from the sound of her heart beating, faster than normal, but he supposed for her this amount of movement might count as exertion. Weak little human that she was. What could she know of a soldier's body? He began to doze, drifting away on a wave of satisfaction and the surety of winning this ridiculous bet.

Bulma had known she'd enjoy touching him, but not quite _how much_. Or how quickly her thoughts would descend into what could be termed inappropriate, at best. He'd practically quivered at her touch, and he smelled like fire and loam, the aftermath of spent power and electricity. She was starting to worry he'd realize just how base her thoughts had gotten and freak out, when he suddenly went limp. He was dead asleep, the rumble under her fingertips somewhere between a purr and a snore.

She wanted to be annoyed at how unaffected he was by her touch, but she knew good sleep was rare for him. After a moment of watching his peaceful expression, she ghosted a hand over his brow and fled the room to find a cold shower. Or a beer. Or both.

* * *

Vegeta came back to himself gradually, the light in the room increasing on a slow timer. He was continually amazed at the luxuries humanity wasted technology upon. Though admittedly, this was the most relaxed he could recall feeling...ever. The numbed-out haze of regeneration tanks was the closest comparison he could make, but that always left a faint hangover of pain and preservative.

The alienness of feeling so unburdened was enough to send a jolt of unease through him. _What am I doing here? I don't have time for this!_ -

A chain reaction of anxiety would have snowballed into panic or rage if not for her voice suddenly cutting through the chaos. "Good morning, **sunshine** ," she chimed. Whatever the phrase meant in her language, the Saiyan word definitely did not fit. "Fiery ball of gas" did not sound like the teasing term of endearment her tone implied.

"Get dressed, and meet me outside."

* * *

Next on her agenda, apparently, was a "walk."

" **Where are we going?** " he asked, not for the first time.

" **It's a** _ **surprise**_ **. Don't worry, you'll like it.** " Didn't she realize "surprise" literally translated as "ambush," which he very much would not like at all?

" **This is pointless. Why would I walk anywhere I could fly?** " He had never walked anywhere out-of-doors since the day he first took flight.

"It's 'active recovery.' Movement to boost circulation, slightly elevate your heart rate. Not manipulate ki."

" **This is so slow.** **You're** **so slow** ," he complained.

"Oh my kami, Vegeta, what are you, _five_? Will you _shut up_ if I let you fly us home?"

" _Fine_ , woman."

"We're almost there, deal with it."

They continued on in silence, and he had to admit it was...pleasant. He still felt like a child choosing to crawl when he could run, but the slight breeze through his hair, the scent of water and green things, even the warmth of the sun were all muted sensations usually lost to the wind, flying at the speed of sound.

Their destination, when they finally arrived, was so lovely he was momentarily speechless. A sylvan enclave of slim parchment-white trees circled a whisper of waterfall and a mirror-smooth pool of green, reflecting the sun-dappled canopy overhead.

How many planets had hidden pockets of beauty like this, secrets waiting to be discovered? How many had he erased from existence, forever?

Tendrils of steam peeled away from the surface, the water blood-warm underneath. He turned to find her stripping down to one of the ridiculous outfits she lounged around in when "sunbathing," which covered less than undergarments but was somehow more decent to display in public.

Bulma smothered a smile at his predictable glower, amazed to find that Saiyans might be capable of blushing, after all. She hadn't been sure. Goku had no shame, and in her experience the rest of their species seldom wore expressions outside the range of "murder".

She turned her back, definitely not purposely making sure he checked out her other...angles...as she sank into the hot spring.

This backfired as her sigh of pleasure masked what little sound he made with his own entrance, and she yelped at the low voice in her ear, behind her. " **Lovely** ," he admitted, ambiguously.

The pool was too small, and too big, all at once. She wanted an excuse to be closer, to brush skin, and she wanted room to retreat from her treacherous libido and the echoing glint she saw in him.

Every hair on her body raised with a shiver, and her nipples could have cut glass. The bikini had been a bad idea. She should have brought her least attractive, dowdiest one-piece. But she was Bulma Brief, why would she even own anything like that?

Was he going to make a move?

Would she? Did she dare?

 _The bet, Bulma. This isn't part of the plan. You can't let him weasel out on a technicality, claim you've corrupted the data._

It was a weak argument, not enough. She sat forward. This was happening.

And then, his expression was a wall of nothing , closing his eyes and leaning back on his arms.

 _Ignoring_ her!

Ignoring _her, Bulma Brief!_

If he had just said "no," that would have been the end of it. If he had been uninterested or uncomfortable, that would have been the end of it. Instead, he pretended that such desires were beneath him, that _she_ was beneath him, and sealed his own doom.

The gauntlet was thrown, and his opponent snatched it up. When Bulma Brief went to war, gods took note.

Empires have fallen to lesser assaults. A mere Prince stood no chance.


	6. Applied Theory

_"If your enemy is secure at all points, be prepared for him. If he is in superior strength, evade him. If your opponent is temperamental, seek to irritate him. Pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant. If he is taking his ease, give him no rest. If his forces are united, separate them. If sovereign and subject are in accord, put division between them. Attack him where he is unprepared, appear where you are not expected."_

 _-Sun Tzu, The Art of War_

 _And we will fly_

 _Like smoke darknin' the skies_

 _I'm Eve, I wanna try_

 _Take a bite_

 _-Sia_

* * *

How intolerable would it have to get, he fumed, before the fucking gravity room just wasn't worth it anymore?

In any other situation he might have admired her ruthlessness in exploiting a weakness and going for the kill. Not for the first time, he wondered what might have happened if her precious Earth had fallen under Frieza's crosshairs, and the entirety of her genius had been pitted against the Cold Empire.

He could have had her in the hot spring, he knew. He still woke dreaming about _that_ , in spite of himself. But he'd made the right decision that evening, chosen to ignore the immaterial wants of his flesh in favor of greater goals and keeping distractions to a minimum. He'd wanted to smirk at the naked astonishment on her face when he'd leaned back and feigned disinterest. He dare not, lest she take it as encouragement, because it was already taking everything he had to stay where he was on his side of the pool, glad of the steam that hid the raging hard-on determined to expose his lies.

For an instant her face had been pure cold fury, and even he felt a prick of unease. He wasn't certain she hadn't engineered a way to kill him, somewhere in the depths of her sub-basement laboratories. It was gone so soon he might have imagined it, her expression placid-smooth as she reclined and proceeded to ignore him in return.

But then she'd pressed against him on the flight back to her home, lips brushing his neck as he touched down, speaking in his ear. "I'll see you tomorrow, Vegeta, and we'll see _who wins_ ," she promised. "The bet, I mean," she laughed carelessly, but he knew he was in trouble.

Of course the data proved her to be correct. His power level spiked enough the next morning that he knew her theory was right long before she showed him any numbers.

He'd expected her to be smug, but instead she carried on more or less as usual, with one exception. Whenever he saw her, she was dressed to send a jolt straight to his cock, though by Earth standards her attaire was less immodest than usual.

Somehow she knew what would drive him wild. All exposed skin was not equal to a Saiyan. She wore her hair up or brushed to the side, exposing her neck and drawing the eye along its length with delicate, dangling earrings. She wore no scent that might distract from her own, her want for him a siren's call all by itself. Her clothes weren't overly tight or low-cut, but her legs were always bare, the hem length indecent. And she wore red, all day, every day - deep, blood-dark red. He'd never told her, but somehow she'd found out it was the color of mating, bloodlust and battle, and that no one was allowed to wear it but the Royal House of Vegetasei. It was an insult, a blatant challenge. It made him think of fucking her on the crimson silk of a king's bed long since dust.

The innuendo out of her mouth was shocking, woven seamlessly into everyday conversation in front of her non-Saiyan-speaking parents until he choked on his food. Once she won that reaction, any subtlety evaporated and she spoke openly, brazenly. He refused to give ground for the sake of his pride, but he finally conceded that battle to win the war. He began avoiding meals, rising before everyone else and retiring later, taking whatever he could scavenge to his room to eat in peace. He was fortunate that her mother seemed to be on his side, for some inexplicable reason, bringing him food at random intervals and once leaving a whole cake in his room with his name on it.

The torment she designed for him after his strategic retreat was masterfully executed and just crude enough to set his teeth on edge. She wrote him dirty poetry, butchering his mother tongue, subverting it into rhythm and meter it was never meant to take. He was outraged, he was stunned at the giant balls on her, he was fascinated by the depth of creative imagery she could evoke in a language so lately learned, and he was betrayed by a body that ate up every phrase and ached to make her follow through on her words. He found the scraps of paper hidden in the gravity room, folded into his laundry, tucked under his pillow, and even somehow written invisibly on his bathroom mirror until exposed by the steam from his shower. He nearly killed her for _that_ one, still dripping wet and wearing only a towel.

He'd never made sex a priority before, and he had no intention of starting now when the stakes for his ascension were higher than ever - a mere third class had already achieved it! But denying himself had never been quite. So. _Hard_.

He woke with an erection, and went to bed in the same state, unless he took his showers cold.

He was barely sleeping, he was training longer and longer, and this was quite literally going to drive him insane.

In the end, the final straw was the night she did _nothing_ to tempt him. Nothing but come to him in the dead of night to wake him from a nightmare.

"Vegeta," he heard, felt her cool fingers on his shoulder. "Wake up."

He shot up, breathing hard, trying unsuccessfully to bring his racing heart under control. She watched him quietly, for once keeping her distance and allowing him his.

" **You can go now** ," he managed. Which was literally more like _Get the fuck out._

"In a minute," she said. "Nightmares are to be expected, given what you've experienced. There are meds to help you sleep."

" **I don't need anything from you.** "

She wasn't having it. " **Vegeta. Sleep is how your body repairs itself and gets stronger. Don't you want to optimize your training?** "

Well, of course he did. Once again she'd trapped him with no reasonable response other than to accept what she offered.

She brought him two pills and a glass of water, sitting in his reading chair. "Don't mind me," she said. "I just want to make sure the dose is adequate for your ridiculous Saiyan metabolism. Go back to sleep."

"How do I know you'll...leave me alone?" He didn't really expect her to do anything, it ran against their unspoken rules of engagement. He just wanted her to keep talking.

She snorted, "Vegeta, _when_ I make a move on you, it'll only be after you've begged me for it."

Even with the aftertaste of panic lingering in his mouth, he had to chuckle at her complete lack of humility.

Her voice was velvet in the dark. " **All else being equal, I will win. It's inevitable.** "

" **You have an obscene amount of confidence for a total weakling.** "

"It's simple math, really. On one side is you. On the other is me, and _also_ you. I'm going to win, because my win condition is something _we both want_. The only resistance is...you."

" **How long can you fight me** **and** **yourself?** " The implied Saiyan meaning was _Why fight when we could fuck?_

He had no answer for that, but was suddenly too relaxed to care. Her smug smile followed him into more pleasant dreams.

In the morning, she was still there, curled into the chair like a cat. The cat, however, was curled up against him on the bed, as it was wont to do whenever the door wasn't shut completely.

He was undone, not by the fact that she inexplicably continued to want him, but by her lack of judgment against his weakness, the matter-of-fact way she labeled his trauma and explained it without making him feel pitied or ashamed.

The sun brushed her cheek the way his hand wanted to. He could reach out right now and draw the blue silk of her hair away from her neck, replace it with his mouth, waking her. Pulling her into this nest of blankets with him.

He almost gave in. He was a hair's breadth from doing so, but instead he went to the chamber and disabled the safety overrides she thought he was too "non-technical" to understand, and pushed the gravity settings beyond the current max. The faster he ascended, the faster he could escape this insanity. Who else would engage in a game like this with _him_ , a killer of worlds, but someone completely batshit crazy?


	7. Burnout

Bulma was an adventurous girl; she'd been chasing after the Dragon Balls half her life by now. She was no stranger to fear or death, dragons or space. But she'd never been so afraid as when she tore through the still-smoldering remains of her own contraption to find Vegeta.

If he died, she'd never forgive herself for building it.

When he struggled to his feet and insisted he was fine, she'd never so strongly felt two opposing emotions at the same time. Fury at him for almost killing himself, and relief that he hadn't quite managed it. But he'd passed out before she could scream at him and she'd been too busy shouting orders at the groundskeeping bots and ripping her own clothes into field dressings to manage anything else.

Between herself, her father and the Medi-bots they got him stabilized, thanks to her foresight in hosting the only Saiyan/Namekian blood-bank on Earth in the basements of Capsule Corp. It was easy enough to synthesize a continuous supply once she'd gotten an initial sample, so she stocked enough for Goku, Gohan, Piccolo, and now Vegeta. As far as she could tell, the blood of the two full Saiyans was similar enough to each other to substitute in a pinch, but had type differences comparable to humans. Gohan...well, she wasn't sure if Gohan would be able to take any combination of human and Saiyan blood, or only his own, so she stocked twice as much for him. She'd tried to get a sample from future kid, but he'd gotten so flustered when she asked that she'd guessed he was like Goku when it came to needles, and let it drop. She would just double her demi-Saiyan supply before the androids came.

After the last of the stitches and bandages were done, there was nothing left to do but watch over him as his healing factor kicked in. She could have gone back to her work and let the ever-vigilant bots do their jobs. She could have watched the live feed from her desk. She stayed.

His body temperature continued to rise as it fought infection and rebuilt itself from injuries that her mind still argued should have been fatal. People did not come back from wounds like that. Humans didn't. She was struck anew with the realization that he was alien , he was different. However well she liked to think she'd begun to know him, there was still so much she didn't know at all.

She didn't usually believe in duplicating tech not of her own invention, but she'd have given anything that night to have a regeneration tank. Why hadn't she spent some time trying to reverse-engineer that, instead of writing lewd Saiyan limericks?

As soon as he was better, she was going to fix that mistake. _He had to get better_.

He definitely had what would be considered a fever for a Saiyan, but she had no idea when high might cross over into dangerously-high.

She was back to being pissed off, at herself for her incomplete knowledge of Saiyan physiology, for making the machine that almost killed him, and at him for overriding the failsafes she'd programmed to protect him from himself.

His temperature stopped climbing, so she decided against an ice bath for the moment. He was just restless, and dreaming.

The fever dreams got worse as the night wore on; he progressed to what seemed more like full-blown hallucinations. Most of what he muttered was unintelligible to her, but a few things were repeated so much she'd never forget: 'Frieza', ' **demon-lizard** ', ' **father** ', and worst of all, ' **please** '.

Vegeta never said ' **please** '.

He grew so restless she considered additional sedatives or ki restraints, but his chemical responses to medication were so unpredictable she was reluctant to add anything new to the cocktail already swimming in his veins, and her heart broke at the thought of putting him in restraints after a night of eavesdropping on his dreams. She felt like an intruder into his most private space, but there was nothing to be done about it. Whether he knew she was there or not, she couldn't bear the thought of leaving him alone when he'd come so close to dying.

He was floating now, pulling at the tubes and needles, eyes half-open, lucidity surfacing in words like 'Kakarot', ' **vengeance** ', ' **birthright** ', ' **ascend** ', ' **legendary** ', ' **mine** ', ' **mine** ', ' **mine** …'

If she lost control of this situation she'd have to call Goku to get him back in bed, and nothing in the universe would keep Vegeta here after that.

Panicking, she climbed bodily onto the bed with him, trying to ground him with her body weight, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, bringing her lips to his ear, pouring out words that came to her on instinct: " **You're safe. Frieza is dead. You will ascend. I'm here**." The scent of burning things was in the air as his aura scorched the sheets, and her hair. It felt like holding the sun.

Finally, the gathered power fizzled out, and they sank down against the too-hot mattress, searing her unprotected shins like black leather in a hot car. _Damn it, Vegeta_.

He wasn't thrashing around anymore, but his breathing was labored, every muscle tense, completely unaware of her presence. She was soaked in her own sweat from the heat radiating off of him, but he was dangerously dry. She grabbed the wet cloth from the side table to cool his face and neck. When she leaned away to wring it out and reapply, his arms came suddenly around her with iron force. The rag hit the floor with a wet smack and she made a little "eep" of surprise as he buried his face in her neck.

This was not quite the embrace she'd fantasized about, honestly. It was more like being trapped in a sauna. Still, it seemed to calm him, and she dared hope he had turned the corner.

But even as he seemed to sleep, he kept tensing as if to brace against blows. Her ribs creaked under his strength. Goku might have to rescue them _both_.

And so, in desperation, she sang to him.

She was no great talent, but music had been just another science for young Bulma to master, with pitch and rhythm its rules and elements. She applied herself diligently to the only Saiyan song she knew.

Adrift on the black ocean of fever dreams, Vegeta had been lost in his own crimson hellscape of past demons and future fears, until she arrived. A sliver of blue light worming her way into the nightmares the way she inserted herself into everything else, she told Frieza he was dead, the child he was safe, the warrior he would ascend, and himself that she was there. As though that weren't obvious. Annoying even in his nightmares, he tried to tell himself, but even the warrior scorned him for a liar.

The black things snarled and snapped at the edges of blue, but came no further, for now. The red eyes were a promise of pain for later, and he waited in dread. Until she sang.

All of it left, when she sang. Her voice was a shock of cold water to his world on fire. A silvery low register incongruent with her speaking voice, almost a caress. And a lullaby tone...to go along with one of of the bawdiest Saiyan drinking songs ever written. Somehow, she knew all twelve verses, each worse than the last, and by the end of it his ears were burning and she'd dragged him back to himself in horror and wonder. Too drained even to cringe at how she held him like a child.

" **I must be in sorry shape if you're caterwauling at me like that** ," he rasped, trying for caustic and failing with a dry whisper.

She jerked, her throat closing in relief. " **Vegeta** ," was all she could manage, hating herself for the catch at the end.

He just sighed, slowly turning his face into her neck. " **Your pronunciation is terrible**."

She didn't move, daren't breathe. "My source material was, ah, pretty drunk."

He did not need to ask which of his warriors would have been accidentally recording himself via his own scouter while deep in his cups. He wondered at the pang he felt, thinking of Nappa. _Is this guilt?_

She had not let go of him. "It's a pretty great song."

He snorted. " **It's a drinking song**." He knew he should push her away, but he didn't have the strength.

 _Liar. At least admit to **yourself** that you just don't want to._

She brushed matted hair away from his forehead, a whisper of touch. " **But also a war hymn, right?** "

" **All Saiyan songs are about war.** "

" Of course they are ," not-quite under her breath. Tentatively resting her head against his.

She went on, "But this one is all about war and conquest and this one general who can't be defeated in battle, but full of double entendres about how he can't, erm, _win with the ladies ?"_

" **Yes.** " His face was on fire. Well, more on fire, since he was clearly already feverish.

" **Until he finally loses a battle, and the opposing general turns out to be a woman who claims him as her mate?** " He could _feel_ her grinning in delight.

" **Yes.** "

"I thought it was pretty epic."

 _Of course she would. Are we just not going to talk about this whole embrace thing? You know what, actually, I am fine with that._

He explained, " **It's more or less the story of how the two largest feudal city-states of old Vegetasei united and conquered the rest to become an empire.** "

She was delighted. " **So the greatest conqueror of Vegetasei was a woman?** "

His reply was stuffy, as though they had wandered into contested territory. " **She was the** ** _first_** **, anyway. Greatest is up for debate.** "

"Anyway, I liked it," she murmured.

" **You** _ **would** **.**_ "

"What's that supposed to mean?"

" **No Saiyan who wanted to stay alive would sing a vulgar song like that in the presence of royalty.** "

"Pfffft. Like royals don't know where babies come from."

 _" **Woman** **.** "_ How could she even now still manage to shock him?

"You're all no different behind closed doors." She tightened her arms as though for emphasis. "Are you, Ve-ge-ta?" If her voice had been a caress before, this was a blatant grope.

" **Woman.** " He shifted uncomfortably. " **Let me up.** "

She shoved herself upright. "No. No! Are you kidding?" Her eyes were fire. "Maybe, _maybe_ you can get out of that bed tomorrow. I literally just _put you back together_."

He made a frustrated sound. " **I have to-** "

She smirked evilly at him. " **Here.** " She handed him a plastic object.

He started at it, not understanding. Then-

 _Gods, no._

" **There is no way-** "

"Listen, you ungrateful fuck, you are lucky I didn't _cath_ you-" she stopped, pinching the bridge of her nose, half-turning from him.

Whatever that was, it didn't sound good, and he eyed her warily.

"I can call my dad, if you want," she said in a neutral tone.

At his mulish expression, she continued waspishly, "or _Goku_ ," picking up steam, fueled by his predictable reaction to that , "but you should probably know that I _shaved you bald_ and put about sixty stitches in your inner thigh to keep you from _bleeding to death_ and get over yourself already!"

He convulsed in humiliated fury, but his open-mouthed snarl died at the tears on her face. He would have argued with her until he pissed himself, or relieved himself in defiance on her floor, but her tears wholly defeated him.

In all his life, had anyone ever cried at the thought he might die? _What was **wrong** with her, that she did?_

He turned away from her as much as he was able, until it was done. Shutting his eyes, shutting her out, he heard her walk to the bathroom, flush the toilet, turn the sink on and off.

Instead of leaving, she sat next to him again. He ignored her. _Just go away already._

She didn't move again for so long he thought she'd fallen asleep. He was drifting off in spite of himself, when her hand brushed his cheek, and he hated that her touch was a cool balm to his fevered skin. "Kami, Vegeta." she said, softly. "Maybe remember this the next time you want to do something this stupid." She lowered her voice. "If I blow myself up again, _that woman_ will make me piss in a bottle," she mock-growled.

His eyes flew open. As was so often the case, he didn't know whether he wanted to kiss her or kill her. He wanted it so much he felt it in his _teeth_. But he was so tired, all he could do was glare.

Her other hand joined the first, cupping his face between them. It was a bit like holding an injured wild animal; she was not sure he would not bite her. She leaned closer; he stopped breathing.

Her kiss on his forehead was feather-light, as though it might hurt him, but lingering. When she pulled away, there were tears again.

He couldn't break free from her eyes. "I care about you, you idiot," she whispered.

He felt like he'd been shot through the chest. Again. What-

She forestalled any retort of his with her fingers on his lips. "I know you don't want or need to hear that."

She was _so wrong_ , but he would never tell her, not when he couldn't admit it to himself.

"Just sleep, okay?" she asked. A reply became impossible and unnecessary as he slipped under before she finished speaking.

* * *

Sometime during that endless night, she woke again to him grumbling about the plastic urinal.

He still refused to look at her while she dealt with it, but it was hard to stay embarrassed about what was clearly not a significant issue to her. This made him feel childish for being embarrassed, which pissed him off even more.

But then she smiled at him. "Thanks for not fighting me on this, Vegeta. I know how much you hate it."

Just the acknowledgement of his struggle took the wind out of the sails of his fury.

It's not like her smiles were rare. She was a disgustingly cheerful creature. But this one was his alone. Pure, no malice, no hint of mockery. Had he ever received such a gift?

She rolled her neck as she moved back toward the chair. It was no position to sleep in.

" **You don't have to play nursemaid anymore tonight,** " he said.

" **I know,** " was all she said, yawning.

 _I gave you an out, woman_. He snagged her wrist as she passed by, dragging her toward him, not roughly, but not giving her a choice, either.

She tried to tug it back, but even in this state he was so much stronger it was laughable. Her frown disappeared as she realized his intent.

The look on her face as she crawled over the rail was almost predatory. The animal in his blood roared a challenge, while the rest of him wondered if this might be his worst decision yet.

She loomed over him, until the scent of her skin overwhelmed him, his hands finding the back of her bare thighs.

She gasped, a breathless sound, twitching like a rabbit caught out of its den, hands digging into his shoulders.

Then she sighed and made a face at him. "Shove over. I swear, you have the shittiest timing."

"What, have you suddenly grown a sense of decorum? You've been begging shamelessly for this for weeks," his voice low, cutting. Stung by the unexpected rejection.

"Yeah, well, you had weeks to take advantage when you _weren't_ missing half your blood-volume. How much fun could that really be for _me?"_ She crooked a limp finger at him, enjoying how much he hated her with his eyes for that.

"I will end you," he responded, utterly calm. Eerily believable.

She waited for him to object as she nestled herself next to him, pillowing her head on his least-injured shoulder.

He didn't, but he was back to furiously not looking at her again.

"Don't freak out, Vegeta. I'm not saying 'no,' I'm just saying 'how about maybe when you're less almost-dead?' Nothing says sexy like trying to orgasm while worrying your partner might stroke out."

He grunted, but allowed her to lift his arm around her.

"I still have your blood in my _hair_ ," she groused.

He breathed her in, somewhat pleased at that.

"Ugh, only _you_ would find that appealing."

"Just shut up."

"I hope you heal as fast as you _claim_ you do, space man."

* * *

He woke up well before her, and meant to let her sleep, but waking surrounded in the scent and feel of her was too much. His body was loudly making the case that it was fully recovered, thank you very much.

He kept trying to shift away from her lest it be obvious to her as well, but she clung to him like warship-grade adhesive.

"Stop moving so much, you're still like 90% bandages," she snapped without opening her eyes.

He didn't know why, with her obvious want of him, it was such a problem for him that his body wanted her back.

Control, he supposed. He wanted total control over this rebellious facet of himself until _he_ decided to unleash it, and not a second before.

Especially if she might say no, again.

"What is that?" he gestured vaguely in the direction of the barbaric fluids dripping into his arm, desperate for distraction.

"What is what, Vegeta?"

"Your _primitive_ medicine still requires manual blood re-supply...that's mine? It has my face on it."

She made a noise of affirmation, too tired to speak.

"But those symbols aren't my name." He hadn't put much effort into learning their rudimentary symbology yet, but he'd picked up enough to know that.

At this, she smiled without opening her eyes. "No, they are not."

At his growl of irritation, she continued, "Humans have various blood types: Type A, B, AB, and O. Yours says 'Type E'."

She finally opened her eyes, smile broadening, to watch his reaction. "For 'Elite'."

His expression was just shy of murderous. "You mock me."

She sighed, too tired to be less than honest. "A little bit yes, but mostly no. You _are_ something else, Vegeta."

He didn't know what to think or say about that. "Of course I am," he finally managed, but her light snores needled him in response.

"What does Kakarot's say?" He couldn't help asking.

"Hmm? Goku's?" Her sleepy gaze met his again. "He's 'Type 3,'" she said, with a wink.

At that he laughed - an honest, beautiful laugh. Its purity hurt her heart; she wondered if anyone else had ever heard it. She felt like she'd caught a star with her bare hands, and held it close in wonder.

What was this warmth blooming in his chest? Lingering fever? Or was this what it felt like, to have someone of your own? Oh, Nappa and Raditz had been loyal enough, but they'd been born into his service. It had never really been their choice, and he'd never really appreciated it, either.

She owed him no allegiance, no debt, and in fact had plenty of reason to hate him for the harm he'd caused when he first came to Earth. She owed him nothing, but offered him everything. Her loyalty. Her affection. Even a joke at her friend's expense to please him.

The intensity of her eyes, when she moved over him again, was the blue of stars expiring, the last fierce gasp of life before the end. "I declare you fit for duty, soldier," she breathed.

"- _modified_ duty," she ground out at the flash in his eyes, "you're not _training_ today, jackass…"

She caught his retort with her lips. "You're not going to have anything left for it, anyway," she whispered into his mouth, and finally kissed him.

He was certain this was an Earthling thing, this meshing of mouths that sounded repulsive in the abstract but was amazingly intense in practice. The longer it went on the more desperate for her he felt, saved from feeling pathetic only by the needy whimpers she gave him in return.

She was careful with him, so careful. Each gentle touch was his undoing. He was completely unaccustomed to physical contact not meant to kill or cause pain. Every nerve ending was over-sensitized, almost painful, but she read his face like a map and knew when to touch and when to let him be.

She knew his hurts better than he did, having tended each one herself. She moved over him gingerly, but her weight was nothing to him.

Her touch was reverent, a feather-light stroke or kiss over every inch of skin not wrapped in gauze. She drew his hands to her, pragmatic as ever, unfazed by his uncertainty, and showed him exactly how his touch could please her.

He'd never felt anything as fine as her skin, or the silk of her hair, the heft of her breasts. In the end, she did not make him beg, but asked if he were certain, before taking him inside her as though this was a thing they had always done.

He'd thought he understood power - what it was like to have it, and to have none at all. To cower before a monster that controlled your whole existence, or to watch planets die by your hand. He'd never felt anything like _this_ , the power to cause such pleasure it looked like pain, to force his name from her lips, to watch her convulse and wail just for want of him and what his body could give her. He ached to be well enough to put her underneath him, to watch her write against vermillion silk, again and again, and he knew then he would never get enough of her.

Still jerky from her own release, she reached down to find a spot he hadn't known existed, wrenching a cry from his throat as he shattered, lost control so completely that his aura reignited around them again. But this time, joined as they were, it knew her for its own. The blue tendrils of flame licked her skin as she laughed in delight and wonder. He forced it back into himself a breath later, shaken by how easily she'd broken him.

She collapsed onto him, and for long moments there was nothing but the sound of their harsh breathing in the dark. If his face was wet she said nothing of it, and freely gave her own tears as cover.

* * *

The next day, extricating himself from miles of gauze, he was stepping in the shower to rinse off before training when he noticed she had _written on him_ , underneath the bandages.

No disgraceful poems this time, nothing so elegant, just the Saiyan word for "penis" in bold characters across his forearm. Her penmanship was improving, but the strokes were jagged, angry.

It would not wash off.

" **Woman!** " he bellowed, in such a rage that the barometric pressure shifted around the whole compound.

"Hey Vegeta, what's up?" She asked with feigned nonchalance, as though he didn't look one breath away from destroying the whole building.

" **Remove this immediately!** " He brandished his arm at her. Registering dim surprise that she didn't flinch, that she truly had no fear of him anymore.

She was incoherent, and he realized she was crying and laughing at the same time.

" **You're unhinged!** " he spat, uncomfortable with displays of _any_ emotion, much less two that made no sense together.

She patted his wrist ineffectually. "I was so furious at you, Vegeta."

She took a few breaths, calming down. "And myself, for underestimating your skill _and_ stupidity."

She wiped her eyes and stepped closer to him, the pain in her crystal blue gaze sucking his breath away. "Most of all, I didn't know how I was going to ever forgive myself if one of my inventions killed you, and _I couldn't think about that-"_

 _My miserable life isn't worth it_ , he wanted to tell her, though he never would.

She sighed. "I just remember thinking, you'd be so pissed off if you knew what I was doing that you might kill me, and how happy I would be if you recovered enough to do it."

" **Lunatic** ," he called her, without venom. Whatever this was between them, it terrified him, and for the first time he could see it was not healthy for her, either.

But then she stepped into his unwilling embrace, clothes and all, even though he was half-under the shower.

Closing the circuit between them was electric, the contact more than merely sexual, though that element was undeniable. The exposed mutual vulnerability was no less terrifying, but for the first time since his last glimpse of Vegetasei through a shuttle window, he tasted a feeling like home.


	8. Extensive Research

_And I can barely breathe  
When you're here loving me  
Fire meet gasoline  
Fire meet gasoline  
Burn with me tonight  
-Sia_

 _All warfare is based on deception.  
-Sun Tzu, "The Art of War"_

* * *

The chamber powered down into silence, but his pulse thrummed restlessly in his ears. He'd pushed well past his usual time and was still brimming with nervous energy.

It had only happened once. Would he resume his old routine as though nothing had changed, or would he go instead and show her what it was to be with him when he wasn't at half-strength?

He was in the air outside her balcony before he knew it, watching the curtains ripple outward in the night wind.

Still he hesitated, and as usual, she made his mind up for him. She stepped outside, only a silhouette against the warm glow within. Curving shadows and flickering hair, she was the next best thing to naked in a wrap so insubstantial light shone straight through it.

 _Red._

It drew him like a beacon, a tractor beam with an irresistible pull, until his hands found her waist, his mouth searching for hers.

He came at her like a moth to a flame, but she knew it was _her_ wings getting singed, playing with fire, latching onto a thing that would never wholly be hers.

 _Tonight. Tonight is enough._

He meant to overwhelm her with his onslaught, and he did. She could barely breathe beneath the assault of his kiss. Payback was a bitch. His iron grip trapped her against him, prisoner to the demand of his erection.

She rolled her hips against the steel of him, stoking her own fire, until he moaned in her mouth. She didn't know he'd floated them to the bed until she felt the silk at her back.

It was everything he'd wanted, his hands full of her against a field of red. He spread her hair so he could see it, twist his hands in it, pull on it, as he captured her neck. Licking, biting, _claiming._

He was no master at this, but she was so reactive to every touch it was easy to learn her, to keep her just on the edge, as long as he wanted. He made her come once, quickly, just so he could have her begging for hours afterward.

It was torture, she knew he was getting off on tormenting her, but she couldn't say she hadn't deserved it, and it was such a sweet agony.

" **Please** **, Vegeta** ," she gasped, the way she knew he wanted, almost sobbing in need.

" **Please** ** _what_** ** _,_ woman?**" he growled, his fingers slipping away from where she needed them, a deliberate tease.

She finally decided that enough was enough. It wasn't fair that he remain so composed while she was near-hysterical from want. She shoved at the waist of his training shorts until he obliged her, until they were skin to skin together.

She took retribution with her mouth, tasting him, tormenting him, giving no quarter. He dug his heels into the bed, muscles straining, unable to muffle the animal sounds she wrenched from his throat.

He twisted his hands into the sheets, not trusting himself to touch her hair, not right now.

" _ **Fuck,** "_ he rasped, inspiring her to try harder, hollowing her cheeks, pulling him deeper.

" **Stop.** _ **Stop!** " _he commanded her, desperate.

Pulling her off of him, he flipped her onto her back, the fire of his gaze so intense it seared the image onto her brain forever. She'd waited her whole life to be wanted like this.

At last he pressed her into the mattress, pinning her with his full weight as he breached her.

" _ **Yes,** "_ she cried, pulling at him, but he would not be moved any faster, keeping his movement torturously slow, deliberate, making her feel every inch.

In his unearthly strength she found the freedom to struggle, to writhe and push back against his invasion, with no effect on his pace but amplifying her own ecstasy. She beat her fist on his shoulder, and he grunted, his eyes rolling back in pleasure.

He was losing himself, losing touch with everything that was not the inferno of her eyes or the breath-stealing grasp of her body.

" **Do it** ," she demanded. Imperial, glorious. " _ **Ignite** **.** "_ The Saiyan military command to _power up._

He pulled her hair sharply, a reprimand, but switched on his aura as she wanted. When the surge hit her, she convulsed, crying out, biting into his shoulder. Brimming with his power, her weak human teeth managed to break skin, marking him, claiming him, and she didn't even know it. He refused to think about it. It meant nothing.

There was only this fire, this moment. _Now._

The electricity licking through his veins heightened everything, sending him over the edge as her muscles locked around him, her screaming sweet in his ears.

And then, there was nothing but the hammering of her weak human heart under his ear, her hands in his hair, the taste of her sweat. The air held the heaviness of ozone and sex, a waning storm, lulling him to sleep on the rolling wave of her breath.

* * *

For a while, it was the best existence he'd ever had. He trained as hard as he wanted, he ate his fill, and he spent the rest of his hours learning the contour of her hips in the dark, the strength of her hands around him, the butterfly-wing brush of her lips on his skin.

He slept like he'd never had nightmares. He took rest days without grumbling, watching his power grow. Not enough, not nearly enough, but better progress than before.

He should have been concerned. In any other circumstance he'd have been near-insane with desperation to make it happen faster, somehow, _now._ But he found himself able to focus, to relax as much as he'd ever been able to, because her confidence in him was absolute. She never doubted he would ascend, never minimized the importance of it, never spoke in terms of "if" – only "when." Her belief was contagious, and he let it bolster him.

She convinced him to take her to the ocean, one rest day. The idea held no appeal for him, but he had to admit, once they were there, that the ebb and flow of the surf was soothing, the sun pleasant on his skin.

"Isn't this nice, Vegeta?" She stretched, pulling her bikini taut against her body almost obscenely, and he knew she knew it.

He grunted in response.

"Have you ever been to the ocean?" she continued. "Just to hang out, I mean, not to kill a planet of fish or something."

Her ability to joke about genocide surprised him. He supposed it was her attempt to get him to talk about his past without immersing both of them in the morass of uncertain agency and morality. He would not talk about it often, preferably never at all.

He decide to indulge her in this, a relatively safe topic. " **Once. We didn't get much leave. Raditz and Nappa dragged me to some galactic resort to chase tail.** " He paused, frowning. "Literally, the locals were supposed to be Saiyan-like, with tails."

"You don't sound like you had fun."

" **I was too young to appreciate the appeal.** "

"Ah."

" **I killed a lot of fish.** "

"I imagine you did." The image of a small Vegeta and his conquered mountain of fish made her smile, until she realized at that age he'd already amassed a body count beyond her imagination. Not for the first time, she hated Frieza, she hated his father.

" **It was all right. Nappa showed me how to cook them. We didn't get fresh food a lot in space.** "

They sat in silence a while, her fingers tracing patterns on his bare arm while he wanted to squirm away.

" **You know, if you wanted to–** " she searched in vain for a word like _apologize_ in Saiyan and came up wanting. " **–make amends, or something, we could wish them back.** "

" **What?** " He was caught completely off-guard.

"It sounds like maybe you feel a tiny bit bad about vaporizing Nappa."

He didn't respond. Unwilling to confirm, unable to deny.

Sensing his discomfort with the conversation, she let it drop. "Just think about it."

He made a noncommittal grunt.

" **Maybe one of them's a better conversationalist** ," she muttered darkly, and for that he zapped her.

She smacked him ineffectually, smiling in spite of herself.

When the sun began to set, she sat up and asked, "Hey, do you want to see some of what I've recovered lately?"

He honestly didn't know. "Like what?"

"Art, mostly." She dug her tablet out of her bag.

The image she showed him was the mural in the Great Hall where his father's throne sat, the throne that should have been _his_ one day, and it hit him like a direct shot to the chest.

She put it away, quickly. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine," he said. "I don't need to see it. But it's good to know it still exists somewhere."

She nodded, uncertain of his mood, saying nothing.

He toyed with the condensation on his beverage, with its ridiculous paper umbrella. " **He _erased_ us from existence. Purged every record of our history and culture, made it a crime to possess any remnant or reminder of who we were.**"

He looked at her, and his fathomless gaze pulled at her soul, pulling her toward him, until her head rested on his shoulder.

He said into her hair, " **It may not seem like it, but I do appreciate your work.** "

An age of silence passed, while they watched the sun set. The dying light painted everything red, almost reminding him of home.

" **Why** , Bulma?"

" **Why what?** " she asked, unnerved and pleased by her name on his lips.

" **Why, everything**?" The increasing darkness (and probably liquor) loosened his tongue. " **Why did you invite me to live with you? Why help me train? Why… _this?_** _"_ The implied subtext was: Why would you give yourself to one like me?

She took a long time answering, considering carefully. " **When we wished you back, I felt responsible. You didn't ask to be trapped on Earth with us. Where else could I have sent you?** "

He could hear the smile in her voice. "And you were cute."

He remembered her saying that. His face was on fire, even now, even after he'd been balls-deep in her, had her legs wrapped around his head as he tasted her heat, had her lips circling his cock.

She went on, oblivious, " **I wanted to help you train, because you reminded me of myself. I believe you can surpass Goku. You have the drive, the knowledge, the heritage. It's already yours.** "

His throat tightened at the open regard she expressed for him, even above her precious _Goku._

But he didn't understand. " **Why would you want to help me kill Kakarot?** "

She smiled at him then, indulgently. " **You aren't going to kill Goku,** " she said, amused. " **Why would you do that?** "

He thought the answer was fairly clear.

She continued, " **When you** ** _surpass_ ****him, who else will rise up and challenge you? Who will nip at your heels, inspiring you to keep training to stay on top?** "

Her arms tightened around him, as she shivered a bit in the evening breeze. " **Wouldn't you be** ** _bored_ ****without him?** "

Why was she always right? Of course he'd be bored. Purposeless. Aimless. Adrift.

" **As for** **this,** " she paused, almost shy, voice gone soft. " **Well, I like you. I really _like_ ****you,** **the person you are when you're allowed to be free.** " Her eyes were the boundless freedom of cerulean sky, a limitless emotion he could not name.

He didn't respond, only easily gathered her up in one arm and their things in the other, and took her home before she got too chilled.

 _Had anyone ever said such a thing to him before?_

* * *

The problem with announcing a master scheme of seduction and then executing it with consummate skill is that any unforeseen result will not be accepted as unintentional.

" **You're** _ **what?** "_ he screeched.

" **You heard me,** " she said, eerily calm.

" **You don't seem all that surprised,** " he accused.

" **I've had a few days of throwing up to get used to the idea,** " she snarked.

" **This was all part of your** ** _strategy_** ** _,_ wasn't it? A plan to tether me to this backwater mudball?**" He was incensed, a consuming anger stoked by fear and loss of control.

Bulma had had enough. "Come the fuck on, _**Your Highness**."_ That particular Saiyan term for royalty was never used to the monarch's face, and he _knew_ she knew that.

She stabbed a finger into his chest, hissing, "The day Bulma Brief gets herself knocked up to _hold on to a man_ is the day I nuke us all into orbit myself!" Her eyes were a firestorm.

He shoved her hand away. " **You low-class,** ** _flightless_** ** _,_ whore!**"

She was not surprised Saiyans considered 'flightless' a worse insult than 'whore.'

Her gaze narrowed. " **How exactly am I the only one at fault here? We've well established even royal prudes like you** _ **know how babies are made** **!** "_

He spluttered, " **You made a poor wager if you expected a _Saiyan prince_ to stick around and raise your half-breed spawn!**"

She laughed in incredulity. " **No one would take a bet on** ** _any_** **Saiyan sticking around to be a _father._** _"_ Her arms flung wide. " **You lot stick your babies in pods and** _ **shoot them into space** **!** "_

She refused to release him from the hold of her gaze. " **And then when they get hurt on their 'mission' and forget what they're supposed to do, somehow it's their fault? Have you ever thought about what it was like for Goku?** "

She was furious. " **He lived like** **an _animal_ ****until an old man found him, and then the first time he turned Oozaru he killed the only person who cared about him. I don't think he's loved anything with more than half his heart since**."

The last thing he wanted to feel now, or ever, was empathy for Kakarot. " **Love is weakness!** " he spat. " **This was a mistake, it's _all_ a mistake.**"

He blasted a hole in her wall, overflowing with rage, needing to direct it somewhere. " **I'll never ascend here, not with you and all of these** _ **distractions** **.** "_

Powder settled around them, and the flame of her fury had gone cold, iced-over, immovable as a glacier. "Maybe you are right," she said, a blast of winter.

She was the queen, and him the supplicant. She extended an arm, indulgently regal. He felt low before her disdain, and hated her for it. "There's the door," she said. "The pod's got a full tank. No one's stopping you."

Some part of him wanted her to try, but she had already walked away.


	9. Exchange Students

_But it's a bad bet, certain death  
But I want what I want and I gotta get it  
When the fire dies, darkened skies  
Hot ash, dead match, only smoke is left  
-Sia_

 _In the midst of chaos, there is also opportunity.  
-Sun Tzu, "The Art of War"_

* * *

As hurt, scared, and angry as she was, Bulma had a hard time blaming him for leaving. He'd only just started to let himself be comfortable with her, to settle into a new life, to figure out who he was away from a dead planet and a nightmare tyrant. How else could she expect him to act, blindsided with the overwhelming responsibility for another life, fearing a distraction that could rob him of the achievement on which he'd staked his entire significance?

While she obviously hadn't gotten knocked up all by herself, they both knew if she hadn't pursued him so relentlessly, they'd still just be sort-of-friends.

That was the worst bit – she _missed_ him, she missed the easy company of their fledgling friendship, and hated that it might be gone, forever. Sometimes she wished it could all go back to the way it had been before, too.

But there was no use dwelling on that – she needed to move forward, and there was work to do.

With her child's father in space, potentially never to return, the possibility of wishing back Nappa and Raditz had become a certainty for Bulma. She needed to know more about them. She wanted more for her child than a lost, dead, heritage.

And the feeling that they deserved the same second chance as Vegeta had been nagging at her ever since she'd spoken with him about it. Now, he wasn't here to fight her on it.

Or give a fuck what she did with the rest of her life on Earth.

It was easy enough to collect the dragon balls again on her own. She took them to the middle of nowhere to avoid inconvenient questions from nosy friends.

She hadn't counted on stumbling into Gohan, who, from the look on his face, was also hoping to be alone and escape the notice of anyone he knew.

"Hey, Bulma," he said, looking surprised and guilty.

"What's up, kid?" Bulma asked, calculating whether or not to lie to him.

"Dad thinks I'm doing homework, and Mom thinks I'm training." He paused. "I just needed a break."

"You've got a lot of expectations on you, kid. It's not really fair." She ruffled his hair, embarrassing him with the childish gesture. "But if anyone can live up to them, it's you."

Hand to the back of his head, he looked bashful and changed the subject. "What are you doing out here, with the Dragon Balls? Can I help?"

She looked at him for a long time, and then looked away. "You're not really a kid anymore, Gohan. What I want to do isn't necessarily smart, and it isn't safe, but it's what I feel in my heart is right."

She went on, looking out over the jagged cliffs of rust-colored rock, baking in the afternoon sun. "If I let you stay, I'd have to ask you not to tell your parents and I don't want to put you in that position."

He thought for a moment. "I think Dad would want me to help you even if it meant lying to him. And Mom…well, I'm going to be in trouble with her today either way," he laughed uneasily.

Bulma nodded, and began to summon a dragon.

The majesty of Shen-lon never got old – a vast creature that seemed to touch the sky, booming voice echoing in her ears. This time, she felt like he was eyeing her a bit in judgment.

She worded her wish carefully. "I wish for Nappa and Raditz to be alive again, but unable to harm me or anyone I care about."

If she played her cards right they'd never uncover that failsafe.

In an instant, they towered over her, blinking and disoriented. Raditz recovered first. "I remember you, little human," he hissed.

Nappa's eyes narrowed in recognition.

She didn't cower, budge, or lose eye contact. "Aren't you at all curious about why you're no longer dead?"

At this they looked uncertain. Suddenly coming back to life was a lot to handle, even for them.

"Vegeta asked me to find the Dragon Balls and bring you back," she lied.

Nappa snorted. _"Prince_ Vegeta doesn't _ask_ anyone to do anything."

She had to smile at that. "True enough, but fortunately for him I agreed with the idea."

"Why, little earthling, would you ever do that?" Nappa's soft growl was much more intimidating than Raditz's brash, insulting tone, as he stepped closer.

"Stay away from her!" Gohan warned, his forward motion cut short by Bulma's quick gesture to stay put.

"Nephew!" Raditz' surprise was evident, but there was nothing warm in it. "Come to greet your uncle?"

He cracked his knuckles, and even Bulma could feel the auras flaring to life around her. The Gohan who had cowered from these aliens was long gone, replaced by a young man eager for a fight. She'd bet her airship that Piccolo was monitoring them from somewhere, as well.

Bulma needed control of the situation _now._

 **"Stop this at once!"** she commanded, in their own language. **"Power down, and show more control than a green cadet."** Translated more accurately as, _"Stop jerking off instead of thinking."_ Her tone was haughty, arrogant, and scathing.

The two Saiyans, all three of them actually, gaped at her open-mouthed. She imagined they could not have been more surprised than if Vegeta himself had unzipped her skin like a suit and stepped out to reprimand them. Their collective gathered power fizzled out in shock.

 **"A lot has changed while you've been gone, assholes."** she said, ignoring them to brush non-existent lint away from her clothing, an arrogant display of confidence.

 **"Clearly,"** Nappa replied, gruff, and suspicious, regarding her like a talking cockroach.

 **"The short version is: Gohan is with me because Kakarot recognized Vegeta as his Prince, became a Super Saiyan, and killed Frieza to avenge your planet."** _Mostly_ killed, she amended, in her head.

Gohan couldn't follow the conversation, but he heard his name, and his father's, and Frieza's. The Saiyans seemed to be listening attentively, so he let himself relax.

Bulma continued, **"Vegeta is on a training mission to ascend, as we've been warned about a new threat to Earth."**

 **"And why would Prince Vegeta give a shit about a threat to this pathetic ball of mud?"** Raditz challenged.

 **"Is there a reason needed to fight, _Saiyan,_ beyond glory, blood and victory?"** she replied coolly. It was a very Vegeta, very Saiyan answer. The implied Saiyan subtext was a bit more like _"Is that not enough to get it up for you?"_

 **"…the brass _balls_ on this bitch,"** muttered Raditz, cowed enough to do it under his breath.

 **"What is Prince Vegeta to you, woman?"** Unlike Vegeta, when Nappa used this form of address, it was distant but respectful. His eyes were curious.

For the first time her composure flickered. **"I'm his…"** she paused, searching for a Saiyan label that commanded more respect than "baby mama," and coming up wanting.

 **"I'm his earthling paramour,"** she finally ground out, her eyes daring them to comment. It implied higher status than "whore" or "concubine", but not by much.

Nappa's head was spinning. She spoke like a soldier, with the rude, direct structure of the barracks, none of the bullshit equivocation of the aristocracy. Her flawless accent, though, and her tone – that belonged to a queen. The clear ring of command belonged to a general.

She sounded like Vegeta.

She sounded like Vegeta, with a cultivated fondness for creative vulgarity and a habit of using and discarding feminine pronouns like she could only be bothered to use them when she felt like it.

She was a fascinating and infuriating creature, and he could see all too well what Vegeta's interest in her might have been.

Raditz only laughed though, almost to the point of tears. **"As if! The Prince never eats local cuisine!"** Literally: _"never fucks cannon fodder."_

She grew more and more still, the longer he went on, and Nappa felt he had seen warmer light reflected off of glaciers, compared to the icy glint of her gaze.

 **"Put your useless, lowborn brain to work, you unwashed troglodyte, and use your enhanced senses to _figure it out."_** She opened her arms, daring him to do it.

Raditz approached her with caution, though it was clear by now her only weapon was her tongue. He lifted her hair, curiously, and then dropped to his knees to investigate her scent, his nose practically in her crotch. Her face flamed, but she didn't move.

His expression was suddenly a lot less smug. **"It's faint, but she does smell like him."** He stared at her with a lot more curiosity now, which inexplicably made her feel shy. She ignored it.

Nappa rolled his eyes and stepped up to her, looking for more important tells. She watched him, warily, but allowed him to pull her sweater off her shoulder, exposing her neck.

Raditz gave a low whistle. **"Well, someone's been biting –"** Literally: _"Looks like he bit off more than he could–"_

Nappa cut him off with a wave of his hand. If she'd had any idea what a mark like that meant, she wouldn't have introduced herself as only his _lover._ Nappa had long ago given up trying to figure out how his Prince's mind worked, but this was a next-level mess.

And…

His hand drifted lower, respectfully, hovering over her lower belly, searching. He dropped to his knees without thinking, automatically, and punched Raditz in the calf.

 **"Kneel, idiot, she is mother to the next heir of Vegetasei,"** he said only. He wasn't a kind man, but it seemed cruel even to him to add the rest when it was obviously unknown to her.

 _And the claimed mate of your Prince._

* * *

Which is how Bulma found herself with two loyal if somewhat feral Saiyan subjects, however much she tried to convince them otherwise.

Her parents were used to her "taking in strays" at this point. Her mother was delighted to host "friends of Vegeta" and her dad greeted them warmly with only a little grumbling about moving up the R&D on his food replication tech with two more Saiyans to feed.

She convinced them without too much trouble not to blast her parents or anyone else into oblivion for neglecting to use Vegeta's title, telling them that since he'd been living on Earth he had stopped using it.

Raditz was insufferably pleased that the first legendary to arise in millennia was from his own direct bloodline. He was desperate to find out more, convinced that he himself should be able to do it, too. At her insistence he agreed to wait to visit Goku until she could break the news herself, but he wouldn't wait long.

That was going to be a fun conversation with Chichi.

Turns out, the two of them were indeed better conversationalists than Vegeta when it came to Saiyan culture, though the comparison wasn't entirely fair. Nappa reminded her that all of Vegeta's knowledge came from what he'd learned as a young child, or from a book, or his elders. He'd experienced none of Vegetasei's culture or society as an adult himself.

She was ashamed of not having figured that out herself, as it should have been obvious.

 **"If he was insufferable, that was my doing,"** Nappa told her, one night when they were sitting alone over coffee, the first and only Saiyan to take to the bitter Earth beverage. **"He was a boy, tormented by a monster, told he was a Prince. Fortifying his pride and his power was all I could do for him."**

 **"He would hate that you're telling me this,"** Bulma said.

 **"Which one of us is going to tell him?"** Nappa asked.

She sighed. **"Either of us, if he asked."**

He grunted, pleased with the loyalty in her answer, however difficult it might make life for them both.

 _If he ever comes back,_ Bulma thought.

* * *

He couldn't stop thinking about her, however hard he tried.

He trained to utter exhaustion, in the most extreme conditions he could produce, and still she haunted him.

Unexpectedly, there was a monitor in the ship connected to a camera in her lab, an old feed that had never been disconnected. There was a fearful symmetry in the way he watched her now, the same way she had observed him in the beginning.

She didn't spend much time at her desk, but he would catch her, now and then, eating instant noodles, drawing schematics, engine grease smeared on her cheek, in her hair. Sometimes he saw the remnant of tears, or dark circles from lack of sleep, but in general she looked like she was doing well, doing better than him.

The curve of her belly appeared overnight as if from nowhere, and he watched it increase with growing dread. No matter what he had said to her or himself, he kept thinking desperately that she was alone, unprotected, it was his duty to be close, to make sure both she and the child were safe. The way he had never been safe.

He was not the kind of man who should have offspring. He knew nothing of fatherhood other than the distant man who'd made a feckless bargain to save himself by giving his son over for certain abuse.

He should not be a father, he had never wanted to be. But it was happening whether he'd willed it or not, and suddenly the terror that he'd never ascend wasn't only about himself anymore. The androids were coming – had already come, the boy had said, and Earth had been crushed beneath them.

He had to ascend, _he had to,_ and for once Kakarot wasn't in his thoughts at all.

In his nightmares of failure, he didn't dream of his own death anymore.

Only hers.


	10. Breakthrough

_Appear weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak.  
-Sun Tzu, The Art of War_

* * *

Bulma was doing all right with this pregnancy thing, and being more-or-less queen, pretending she had it all under control.

She wasn't entirely sure Nappa was buying her story, but he did not question her. She was too busy preparing everyone for the upcoming invasion to worry about it.

It took Bulma next to nothing to win them over. She'd had their obedience in an hour, their loyalty in a day. All they seemed to need was someone to feed them, lead them, give half a shit about them. Vegeta was not the only one too long in a soulless military.

The two newest members of her household gravitated toward their home language with the same badly-hidden wistfulness as Vegeta, seeking her out at all hours, clearly missing conversation in it with someone other than each other. They devoured the books she offered, and Nappa poured through the image and text archives she'd amassed in her search. She pretended not to see the naked sorrow on his face, and brought him a bottle of whiskey to keep him company as he looked through it all.

They treated her with a sort of reverence after that.

Vegeta's gravity room became theirs, though she monitored them much more closely with it, as Raditz in particular seemed more reckless and less self-aware of his limits. They argued with her a lot less than Vegeta about the idea of rest days, embracing her assistance with training data.

On their first day off, she took their samples for her blood bank, then took them shopping for Earth clothing. They had a lot more fun with it than their Prince had.

 **"I look awesome!"** Raditz crowed, in a sleeveless tee shirt and ripped jeans, and Bulma had to agree, along with the rest of the fans he'd gathered in front of the three-way mirror.

"Here, try this on too," murmured a saleswoman, a little breathlessly, handing him a leather jacket.

Nappa was also drawing a crowd, in a fitted dress shirt and slacks. **"Why did that woman hand me this?"** he asked Bulma, showing her a folded piece of paper with digits on it.

 **"She wants you to** ** _call her,"_ **Bulma laughed. "Come on, let's get you guys phones."

She swore Nappa almost shed a tear when she took them for beers and joined in singing his favorite song. She'd thought he might be embarrassed when she told him how she'd learned it, but he'd only laughed, and then he and Raditz nearly pissed themselves when she said she'd sung it at Vegeta.

In her second trimester, when the nausea and exhaustion receded enough that she felt like eating and braving the wrath of Chichi, she extended the invitation to Goku and his family to come for dinner and meet some "friends".

She was getting a headache thinking about it. It was going to be chaos. _Controlled_ chaos, or so she hoped.

 **"Remember,"** she hissed at them as she went to answer the door. **"Gohan was** ** _not_ ****there when I brought you guys back."**

 **"What's the big deal?"** Raditz asked.

 **"There's going to be enough to** ** _talk about_ ****without getting Gohan in trouble with his mother on top of everything else."**

 **"What kind of woman did my brother take to wife, anyway?"** Raditz wondered.

 **"You'll see,"** was all Bulma would say, not wanting to influence their opinions before they met her themselves.

 **"They don't know about you and Vegeta, do they?"** Nappa observed, not really a question. **"Or–"** he gestured vaguely at her midsection.

 **"No,"** she said, succinctly. There was a reason she hadn't invited Yamcha and everyone else.

 **"This is just to reintroduce you guys to them, and show that you're under my protection,"** she said, non-ironically, and then almost laughed at herself.

The literal meaning was more like _to warn them that fucking with you is to fuck with me._ Raditz was amused; Nappa looked almost touched.

 _Was that a weird thing to say?_ She was too harried to wonder further about it.

 **"Seriously, she's going to be super pissed, you threatened her son and got her husband killed."**

 **"She's still just a human though."**

 **"Do me a favor, and please don't say that to her face tonight."**

Bulma got her guests settled, and served, and then removed the apron she'd been wearing, revealing the unmistakable swell of her pregnant belly as she seated herself.

All conversation stopped, though Goku kept eating.

"So…" Bulma began, absorbing their stares. Only Goku looked unsurprised. "Vegeta and I are having a baby. A boy, actually." She'd just found out that day.

"And I wished back Nappa and Raditz," she said, pointing at the duo hovering in the kitchen doorway. "Please pass the salt."

Raditz waved.

Goku waved back.

Gohan face-palmed, awaiting his mother's wrath.

No one passed the salt.

Chichi did not disappoint. "Are you fucking kidding me? You wished two _Saiyans_ back to life without telling anyone?"

It was a _really bad_ sign when Chichi swore in front of Gohan.

"I'm telling you now," Bulma said, sipping water from a wineglass.

Given the green light, Bulma's Saiyan subjects rushed to claim their share of food before it was gone, piling it onto plates, eyeing Chichi warily as they ate but not slowing down.

Goku tried. "Chichi, it's fine, I don't think there's anything to worry–"

 _"Son. Goku._ Don't you dare interrupt me, and _for fuck's sake finish chewing first!"_ Chichi raged, night-dark hair blowing in its own ominous wind, her fury white-hot along the table's surface, even to Bulma's ki-numb hands.

 **"Shit,"** Raditz said, awed. **"Earth women might be cool after all."**

 **"No Saiyan at the dinner table,"** Bulma chided, a made-up-just-now rule she had broken countless times herself. **"Not with guests, anyway,"** she amended.

Goku was frowning, head tilted, like he _almost_ understood, but not quite. "You're speaking Saiyan."

"Yeah."

"Did Vegeta teach you? Where is he?"

"Sort of. And he's in space," she said. "Training."

"Training in space? While you're _pregnant with his baby?"_ Chichi was appalled.

"The androids are coming whether we're ready or not, Chichi," Bulma said, as though her heart didn't cry the same thing every morning without him.

Nappa somewhat won Chichi over by complimenting the pork buns she'd brought, evidence that at one time he'd been a statesman as well as a warrior. The rest of dinner went a bit more smoothly. It was clear that Bulma's new charges respected and obeyed her, and the longer the evening went on, the more comfortable everyone seemed to be.

For his part, Goku was delighted to have more partners to train with, and made plans with Raditz for the following week. Chichi left with worry in her eyes, but a list of herbal remedies and exercises that had eased her own half-Saiyan pregnancy, and made Bulma promise to call her.

* * *

The next few months were surprisingly uneventful, given the roller-coaster of events Bulma had almost gotten used to. Her Saiyans spent most of their time at Capsule Corp, but occasionally left to train with Goku, or just go exploring their new planet. Never at the same time, though; one of them was always near enough to guard their sort-of-queen.

She'd gotten them phones because she wanted them to build their own lives. They'd always have a place with her, but it would be good for them to have other ties to Earth. Friends, dates, whatever it took for them to see humans as people and not prey. For them to feel at home somewhere again.

With their input, she began reverse-engineering a regeneration tank prototype. But they weren't scientists; they could only describe the mechanics and the _experience,_ the smell and the taste of the blue – **_No, you moron, it's green!_ **– solution, the way the oxygen mask felt, the buoyancy of floating. It was going to be a lot of trial and error to even come close.

She was getting too heavily pregnant to work on it much longer, and feared it would never be done in time. _At least there are still senzu beans,_ she thought, and replenished her stock, just in case.

* * *

Bulma planned to give birth at home, with a midwife, though she had her personal doctor on retainer in case things went south.

Surprisingly, when the time came, it wasn't her mother she most wanted nearby, though of course she was there. It was Nappa and Raditz.

These were men who'd known and endured pain, who'd kept Vegeta alive in the face of suffering, and soothed his hurts as a child. It seemed fitting for them to see her through this, to see his son born. They weren't squeamish about blood or bodily fluids, either.

It was effortless for them to hold her up when she tired, supporting her as she labored. Their iron fingers withstood her brutal grip, and applied wonderful counter-pressure to her lower back when she asked.

It was the hardest physical thing she'd ever done, and she wanted Vegeta more than she could bear, but she felt supported, safe, cared for.

Sometime in the wee hours, something changed, felt off. She'd finally been able to start pushing, but it felt like she wasn't getting anywhere.

The midwife fretted, "You're not progressing as much as I'd like. We might need to call your physician."

Bulma tried not to panic, panting.

Nappa frowned. **"Raditz, here,"** he ordered, the younger man switching places to take Bulma's weight.

The bald soldier came around, his eyes serious but calm, holding Bulma's gaze. She found the lines around his eyes comforting, the greater age and wisdom of someone that had _seen things._

 **"The babe's resisting,"** he said. **"He just needs to know it's all right."** He reached forward to touch her belly, waiting for her nod to proceed.

His huge palm felt warm even to her hot skin, a faint glow around his hand. The baby immediately relaxed, stopped fighting her, a blockage she hadn't even known about suddenly dissolving as her whole body fought to bear down with renewed vigor. She groaned in relief and agony as she finally felt the child _coming,_ nearing the end of her ordeal.

With a shout to rival any battlefield, the newest prince of all Saiyans entered the world at last.

* * *

He knew, somehow, even training in deep space. He felt her fear, her triumph.

It was the last push he needed, a final spike of panic, knowing it was _real_ – and then everything exploded, caught fire.

 _He was the fire._


End file.
